At precisely 18:50 Sherlock approached Angelo's, at the last minute he hesitated at the door, not seeing John outside, or in their usual spot, but a waved arm further in has him pulling open the door to see John leaning up against the tiny bar at the back, with a shot of black sambuca in his hand.
As the 'great detective' manoeuvres through the door and takes the half dozen steps to John, Angelo sets a shot down in front of Sherlock and takes up one of his own.
"Come Sherlock, have a drink with me, I haven't seen you in weeks."
Indecision making him hesitate over the invitation, John straightens from his half slouch, "Go on then, a toast?" his inquisitive tone of voice almost half command.
Quickly noting the details of the two men, 'John is dressed smartly, but comfortably, went to the barber... eleven days early and with product in, interesting, seems calm and happy. Angelo is happy to see us, has gone to special effort, keeps glancing towards our table, so he set it special... John must have booked a reservation, he likes to give them some warning. There's a smudged cloth tucked into his apron, he's cooking for us, hmmm, well it has been 26 days since we were last here. He must be trying to make up for lost time.'
Wordlessly he picks up his shot glass and salutes the other two men before they all knock back the liquorice flavoured spirit.
"Good!" Angelo practically shouts, drawing the attention of a few other dinners, "If you two head over to your usual table I'll be by with the wine list in a moment."
"Mmmm!" John comments positively, at Angelo's instructions and gestures Sherlock toward the table. Which has been turned sideways, perpendicular to the window, set fairly normally, though the table cloth is a delicate pattern of lace and silky linen and the napkins match. As he sits Sherlock idly fingers the edge of the napkin, suspicion building in his mind, a uneasy feeling in his gut, he's about to ask John when Angelo materialises with the table candle again.
He goes through the same spiel as that first time, 'it's more romantic that way' his memory supplies a beat ahead of Angelo and Sherlock stiffens, waiting for John to object again, but he doesn't. Wrenching his eyes open he sees John smiling at him proudly and as quickly as the uneasy feeling arrived it's banished! In it's place nervous anticipation takes up residence as Sherlock looks quickly up at Angelo who winks at him and rushes off.
"John? What is going on?" he looks deeply at John, but other than he's obviously dressed for a date, he doesn't seemed fussed by Angelo's usual assertions they are a couple. With a bolt, his eyes widen, as the thought that this time they actually are a couple, occurs to him. Catching John's eye again he can only stare as his flatmate nods slowly, smile widening, as he slides his hand across the table towards Sherlock's.
Feeling like he's in a dream of some kind, Sherlock looks down to watch the hand, giving the impression he's afraid it is going to bite him, instead of, as it is doing, picking up his own slender fingers. Swallowing compulsively, his throat working noiselessly, Sherlock is horrified to feel the hot angry pricks of tears in his eyes. Blinking them away furiously he sits there deaf and blind to everything but the sight of his lover lifting their hands so he can kiss the back of Sherlock's hand.
At that moment a heavy hand lands on his shoulder as Angelo sets a small vase on the table. Sherlock reflexively looks up into the kindly face, 'he knows, he knows!' then he snaps to looking at John, who seems happy to have pulled one over on the 'great detective'.
With his eyes John lead his gaze to the vase again, and Sherlock notes the odd arrangement. Quickly accessing the meanings of flowers that he learned under Mummy's influence, but has assisted him on dozens of jealous husband/lover murders, he reads the message hidden in the blooms.
"Borage for courage this evening, hydrangea for heartfelt thankfulness of being understood, iris for good news, gorse for love in all seasons, seasons of what John, my mercurial temper?" John chuckles quietly but says nothing else, "Lastly a red chrysanthemum to say you love me. My, my that is quite the missive John."
Tightening his grip on Sherlock's hand, "Well Sherlock I think it's important you understand exactly how I feel, and if your up for it, I'll tell the world, not just Angelo and the ten or so people dinning here tonight."
The anticipation is suddenly galvanised into sheer joy, his small true smile of happiness cemented on his face he clutches John's hand back.
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Halfway through the dinner, almost as an after thought, Sherlock pulls out his mobile snaps a picture and sends Sally a photo of John smiling at him across their table at Angelo's.
Sally gets it, laughs and replies, "Get in!"
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The tiny restaurant has already closed for the evening, and Angelo is sitting at the end of their table, various dishes with sweets and pastries still cluttering the table while they enjoy espressos.
The happy couple is a bit giggly due to the bottle of prosecco and the big bodied red they had with their meal, so Angelo doesn't worry that taking both their hands in his would be too familiar. "more than six years ago you two came in here, hot on the trail of a case, but I could see it, that special bond. At the time I was sad to think it wouldn't be complete, but your bond was still so strong, I had hope."
"You have to understand," looking each in the eyes for a long moment, "I knew it was early days, that you'd not even known one another for a full day yet, but the bond," he draws their hands together and holds them in place till they link fingers, then let's go, "was already there."
He nods once toward the clasped fingers, "For the first time someone saw past the rubbish you put up Sherlock to keep people at bay. Someone who was worthwhile and steady, not looking to use you, or hurt you, but someone who can simply be your other half."
"And you Dr. Watson, you told me yourself in those bleak years that it was like being invalided home from the war all over again. By that I can only guess that the happy smiling, flirtatious man I met that night so long ago was created in those scant hours after meeting Sherlock Holmes for the first time. The laughing smiling man I handed a useless crutch to, a newborn version of the war torn hero."
"Now!" sliding his chair back noisily and standing, "You two go home and have another shower." winking at Sherlock's scandalised expression. "I have to get my wife's dowry tablecloth and napkins clean and back in the cupboard before she get's back from her sister's tomorrow!"
Laughing at Sherlock's red face John tows him out the door and down the street. After a few feet Sherlock grabs onto John's elbow to slow him down, then slowly looking John in the eye he reaches out and takes his hand, kissing the back of it, like John had done when they first sat down to dinner. With lighter steps they make their way home.
Pinned to the inner door of the flat is a note from Mrs. Hudson:
Boys, I'm off to visit my sister for the coming week as builders are doing some works on my bedroom. They shouldn't be a bother, it's Mrs. Turner's son-in-law, so he has keys, no worries. Be good lads and I'll see you soon.
Mrs. H.
PS-Sherlock remember your promise.
Shaking his head at it all John almost misses the odd, considering look on his lover's face, "What is it Sher?"
Mischievous look lighting his eyes, "What do you want to bet she's having her bedroom sound proofed?" he watches in glee as John turns bright red and sputters out, "I'm sure I don't want to know!"
With that he takes off his coat and trots up the stair, only to stop in the centre of the sitting room in horror. On their work table stands a large spray of gorse, shot through with irises, a lot of borage and chrysanthemums. Sherlock walks past him to scoop up the message leaning against the base and read it.
"Hmmm it seems Mycroft agrees with your message John, though he thinks you need the borage more than I do."
Noticing the slightly irritated expression in Sherlock's voice snaps John out of the shock and he strides over and plunges his hand into the gorse to extract a borage stem and a chrysanthemum. Turning to Sherlock he hands him the large red bloom as a distraction, then caresses his lower lip with a worn, gorse-scratched, thumb.
Sherlock closes his eyes, his lips part and John slips his thumb in for a second, then replaces it with the borage flower. Sherlock concentrates on the biting sweet, fresh, taste of the herb as John's hand guides him to chew. "Your the one needing the courage tonight Sherlock."
Upon hearing that commanding voice his eyes fly open as he takes in their aroused state. In a daze he turns and begins walking towards his room, turning only once to see John stalking along behind him like a wolf after it's prey.
Suppressing a full body shudder Sherlock focuses on his goal, the bed, and shuts out the image of John displaying animalistic characteristics. Like growling and mouthing the back of Sherlock's neck as he grasps his naked hips and mounts... Clearly that immutable part of his brain is playing dirty and exercising full artistic licence on his memories to create such vivid visitations!
A rumbly whisper directly in his ear, "Where did you go Sherlock?" the sensation of hands against his body, gently, but quickly, removing the clothing. Sherlock is shocked to realise he's standing at the edge of his bed with no memory of having gotten there. 'hmmm, interesting, usually I keep a base awareness of my progression through a room. the immutable part of my brain seems to have overridden everything.'
He starts again to realise their bodies are now bare, "Sherlock? I want you with me, where is your brain taking you?" Tentative hands are trailing over his arms and shoulders to meet behind his head to grasp his neck. His oddly consuming fantasy, 'yes that is what it is, a fantasy' rears up in his mind, but John drags him down and bites at his lips, grounding Sherlock to reality.
"Oh there you are now." John moans, the sound so soft and smooth Sherlock's knees go weak, just for a second, as he kisses John back with enthusiasm. "I was fantasising about you, embracing the canine impulses of your Chinese zodiac and it was very enthralling. I'm sorry if that's a bit not good."
John's eyes track up and down Sherlock's body silently for a bit, "You can tell me about fantasising over me any time." Gently, but insistently John's hands push Sherlock down onto the bed, pushing and pulling till he's resting against the pillows. Clambering up on the bed beside him John leans sideways against the headboard and smiles at his flatmate.
Sherlock shakes his head no, "There is no reason for you to worry or second guess yourself, I would very much like to take the next logical step with you."
John badly suppresses an amused expression, "And what would that be Sherlock?"
Rolling his eyes Sherlock laughs, "Don't pretend ignorance John Watson, your the one who stashed this lube," pulling a Boots bag out from under the pillows, "in the bed this afternoon while I was gone. Tell me, did you know we were going to use my room, or did you stash a bottle in both rooms?"
Taking the chemist' bag from him John pulls out the bottle of cherry flavoured lube. "Both, or rather, I got three bottles and left one in each spot I thought of as a possible location to need it." scrutinising the bottle a moment to get at and remove the protective seal, "I'm sorry it's cherry flavoured, that isn't meant to be any kind of joke, it's just my favourite kind. The other flavours are a bit too much, and the plain is just not right so I just stick to the cherry."
A wry smile on his face, "Next time pick up their red bottled massage gel, it has ylang-ylang essential oils in. I'd like to test if the aphrodisiac properties purported to be there exist or not." Sherlock thinks on the intent behind the lube and lets his eyes reflect that expression, pupils expanding and his breath picking up pace as he keeps his eyes on John as he shifts down and rolls away from John, onto his stomach.
John's brain shudders to a full stop as that canvas of ivory is exposed to him, Sherlock's head cocked back, his eye's burning into John's soul. With a broken moan he roughly grabs his lover's shoulders and kneads them for a moment, letting his eyes slide over the long sinuous muscles of Sherlock's back, as he struggles for equilibrium.
Sherlock, slides his knees up under himself, one at a time, thrusting his hips slowly up into the air. John whimpers as his hand caresses down the spine and gently strokes the taught rounded buttocks. Looking up into the dark gaze of his lover again John struggles to talk against the sudden pressure of his heart hammering and his lungs heaving in his chest.
"Sherlock, please tell me you want me to do this, please tell me you want me to," he pauses as the tips of his fingers stroke down the 'intergluteal cleft' his brain supplies, the very tips brushing over the delicate wrinkle of skin therein. Stopping there, he strokes a bit more gently, before moving to get the lube again.
An unreal moaning, squealing sound comes from Sherlock who twists around grabbing Johns arm in a harsh grip on his forearm. "Don't you dare stop, I haven't wandered off into my mind palace, I'm fully aware and consenting, so you had better not be stopping!"
John chuckles warmly against his shoulder as he shifts down the bed beside him, "Not going anywhere, no worries mate." his fingers, now coated, slipping down the cleft again, his two middle fingers rubbing behind Sherlock's bollocks in circular patterns with slowly increasing pressure.
Hissing quietly, Sherlock at first moans, rocking his hips down toward the bed, then back again, as John's fingers press even more insistently against his perineum.
"Do you like that Sher? Hmm?" sliding his fingers back to tease closer to his entrance, "Do you like the feel of my thick fingers rubbing at you there?"
A grumpy expression evident, Sherlock bucks against John's hand, "No, actually!" before John can pull away in confusion, "I'd rather it was your cock frankly. Can we please progress a bit faster?"
Flushing with need John slathers his impressive thickness; choking back the urge to just paint Sherlock's lower back and arse with his spend. "It will be a bit yet, unless you want to be going into A&E with anal fissures." Coating his fingers again, John holds his breath as he rubs it in, trying to get some of it into Sherlock's opening. Sherlock for his part assists John's efforts by suddenly shifting back towards his heels quickly. Startled, John doesn't manage to move his hand before Sherlock's arse envelops the tips of two of John's fingers.
With a startled sound both freeze in a tableau for a moment until John removes his ring finger leaving his middle finger to be swallowed up by his flatmate's arse to the first knuckle. Holding his breath while drizzling on a bit more lube John's vision narrows down to the sight do his finger being drawn inward with minimal force, "Oh good lord Sherlock, tell me that's okay, please! I need to add another finger now!"
Groaning Sherlock rocks back suddenly, bearing down and forcing his body to accept John, "Yes, god, yes! All of them, now, now! John, now." He writhes against the bed, his chest rubbing against the pillows and duvet cover, everything is making his body over sensitive, he shifts his weight over onto his left arm as he tries to worm the other underneath himself to provide his own cock with friction.
John simply stops his arm, "No Sherlock, don't distract yourself now." Slowly he withdraws his finger and adds his index finger, tucking it under middle finger, curling the tip of his middle finger down a bit to minimise the impact of the second digit. Twisting his hand a bit as he applies pressure and the digits slide in quite easily.
Sherlock stills and can do naught but moan as John proceeds to add his other fingers in rapid succession. Still riding on a slick layer of lube, Sherlock bites down on his lips every time John glides in, almost allowing the softened opening to swallow the folded palm of his hand whole.
Sherlock's body is shuddering, like a horse driven to run - till collapse takes it - John fares little better, never has another's body so greedily enveloped him, never before has this awe inspiring ability of the human body, to embrace pleasure, startled him so much. After all, quaking under the onslaught of John's fingertips, brushing his innermost sanctum, is Sherlock Holmes, mad, beautiful, Sherlock Holmes.
Gently shushing the ragged moans coming from Sherlock, John withdraws his hand slowly, giving the prostate a long stroke on the way out. Sherlock bucks forward as the last digit leaves him and immediately thrusts his hips back, his hands tightening in the pillow cover, trying to pull it closer and push it away at the same time!
John for his part is beyond speech, and the sounds Sherlock is making are low, rough, and eager. Reaching under and across his body, John grabs at Sherlock's right shoulder from the left, yanking inelegantly. Being a genius Sherlock realises what motion John was trying to indicate, rolls over and wiggles himself into the centre of the bed, feet placed with determination well wide on the duvet.
Feeling a deep sense of surreality John leans over Sherlock sliding his hands up the backs his love's thighs, forcing his knees even wider, he pushes till they are almost flush with the flawless ivory chest below him. Knee-walking forward, till he's nudged right up against Sherlock's arse John props the left leg up on his shoulder to free up his right hand.
He makes sure Sherlock's back is straight and flat to the bed, excluding the lower coccyx area that is rolled upwards with his knees more or less bent to his chest, John checks to make sure they still have enough lube applied and then takes himself in hand and tries to shake off the mutism that this experience is causing him.
"Sherlock, I'm going to enter you now, and it might get a bit wild. Please try to remember that quick movements can ruin the night for us. Trips to A&E, you understand?" Clutching to the knee and upper thigh of Sherlock's left leg John begins the process of sheathing his cock in his flatmate.
Distantly Sherlock hears John say something about things going badly, but for the life of him he cannot concentrate on anything other than the feeling of John's penis nudging at his arse, like a needy thing looking for it's way home. 'oh my god my mind is broken!' He knows he has to bare down, to force the muscles to relax, and accept the monolith at his door. A keening sound is trapped in his throat as a rippling pain dancing the knife's edge of tolerance fires up his nerves.
John's voice seems far-off, and the thread of words is impossible to follow, one or two make it through, "...snug, tight, oh god, oh god..." it almost seems like he's fainting the way the sound is fading in and out like that. 'I wonder if after the event I'll be able to remember the bits I can't hear now?'
At that moment the steady rocking forward of the intruding organ bumps up against the lower edge of his prostate and Sherlock is helpless as his body jack-knifes, his left leg clenching, along with every other muscle in his body, and jerking John's body to him, forcing himself fully onto John's cock. Howling in delirium Sherlock can feel the frantic flexing of the python inside him.
Powerless against the raging sensations, he has to move, he has to try. His feet scrabble at the duvet, he claws John closer, then pushes away, completely confused he watches, as if from a distance as his body is taken over for a while and it begins to figure out what it wants. Seconds after Sherlock sees his body figuring it all out John begins to move. At first it's just a gentle rocking, like at the beginning of penetration, but now it's testing to see if Sherlock's anal muscles have relaxed enough for him to move. They have not.
And in the next moment they have and John pulls all the way back and strokes in. In that rush of hormones and sensation Sherlock is back in himself, riding the python instead of just watching from a safe distance.
"Oh god John..." escapes him on the second stroke as he begins to up the tempo. Every time, in or out, the length drags on his prostate, sending sparks showering through his core to his ignored penis that bobs and jerks in the air pumping pre-ejaculate out onto his own abdomen at a steady dribble. His whole body is tightening up and ratcheting the pressure up, stroke after stroke, where to? He has no idea, Sherlock has never been here before.
John's lips are suddenly feathering against his cheekbone, "How is it love? Are we ticking all the boxes now then? Got one more for you." with that he pulls all the way out and begins twisting Sherlock's hips round, jostling him up onto his knees, he grabs roughly at Sherlock's hips and pushes him forward into position so he can just ram in. 'oh god, fantasy?'
With just a slight check to make sure he was lined up well John then wrenches Sherlock's hips back to meet his pelvis with a sharp, shocking slap. Incapable of articulating a thing Sherlock hangs his head and just enjoys the pounding. He can feel how it has changed with the positioning, before John's cock was just sliding by the gland, sensitising it by proximity. Now the head of the cock is ramming into it, then pressing into it forcing the shape of his body to shift accommodating to his size. The almost right angle in there that has the prostate at it's base is flattened out which has quite the effect.
Without warning, John's hands are pulling his shoulders up, still jacking into him solidly, but levering him up off the bed so he's leaning his back onto John's barrel chest. "What was it you said about fantasy Sher?" his arms wrap tightly around Sherlock, pinning his hips in place. "Canine aspects?" he begins to mouth around Sherlock's nape, scraping his incisors over the arch of Sherlock's trapizious muscle, suckling and gnawing, bringing up a huge mark on Sherlock's flesh.
The tightening trebles, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do. Hesitantly he brings up a hand and balances a bit on the head board, subtly pushing back against the onslaught from behind.
"Oh go on then." trickles out of John, sticky sweet, like treacle and Sherlock snaps the other hand up, distributes his weight and starts shoving back against John's weight in perfect counterbalance. A quiet chant of... "yes, yes, yes, yes..." begins but Sherlock cannot be sure which of them it is that is saying it.
Feeling like he's leaping forever upwards toward his culmination, Sherlock feels a bit distraught, he's not sure about this lack of control, about what is going to happen. Then it happens, he feels a warmth spreading through him and an almost sick feeling, like a roller coaster, he's ejaculating without a single touch to his cock and he's almost convinced that the little adrenalin skip is over when John's lips are brushing his ear,
"There's just one thing Sherlock, I was born in the year of the pig, not the dog, that was 1970."
As the pleasure takes him again and his brain whites out completely, he thinks, 'there's always something.'